I have enjoyed surrealism in the past. For me, Dali and Disney's Destino is the best example of it I have seen, because it holds the thread of a story, unlike Un Chien Andaluz.
I vaguely knew Conroy Maddox, one of the last Surrealists; my favourite work of his was 'Communal Living'. I can't find a copy of it on the web, but might have one from a book he signed for me. Conroy told me that Surrealism was never about originality per se, but juxtaposition and combination in order to create an original or if not original, unforgettable effect. In Destino, Dali and Disney's tortoise hoisted profiles may just be a bit weird, but what matters is that in the space between them the dancer is shaped. Dali's obsession with telephones and baseball as a metaphor for sex gets in the way a bit, but eh.
Max Ernst left his wife for Dorothea Tanning, and eventually they married. As far as I can see it's a case of the Frida Kahlo effect: both partners are artists but one is The Artist. Out of Kahlo and Rivera it's Kahlo, out of Tanning and Ernst, it's Ernst. Ernst doesn't bore me. Tanning does, though out of the demands of feminist sisterhood I tried to admire her equally. One trick I hate in surrealism, or indeed any form of art, is when the art is in the name rather than the piece named. Sometimes the artist doesn't have a story, and the onus gets placed on the viewer to make something out of nothing. It's better if the artist comes clean and just labels the work 'Inchoate number 28,' or something. Dorothea's art had real shining moments, an astonishing imagination, but in general the less shaped, the better it became. Or at least the more photogenic.



I haven't included her 'soft sculptures,' which in the early 21st century are just that bit too close to plushy tubes to inspire. She had talent with set dressing and illustration, but to be honest, she didn't captivate me. In the end, Schad's one picture mattered to me far more.
I see that Jonathan Jones is bad mouthing this years Summer Exhibition at the RAC, so I will probably go look-see in defiance of that homunculoid study in envy.
I vaguely knew Conroy Maddox, one of the last Surrealists; my favourite work of his was 'Communal Living'. I can't find a copy of it on the web, but might have one from a book he signed for me. Conroy told me that Surrealism was never about originality per se, but juxtaposition and combination in order to create an original or if not original, unforgettable effect. In Destino, Dali and Disney's tortoise hoisted profiles may just be a bit weird, but what matters is that in the space between them the dancer is shaped. Dali's obsession with telephones and baseball as a metaphor for sex gets in the way a bit, but eh.
Max Ernst left his wife for Dorothea Tanning, and eventually they married. As far as I can see it's a case of the Frida Kahlo effect: both partners are artists but one is The Artist. Out of Kahlo and Rivera it's Kahlo, out of Tanning and Ernst, it's Ernst. Ernst doesn't bore me. Tanning does, though out of the demands of feminist sisterhood I tried to admire her equally. One trick I hate in surrealism, or indeed any form of art, is when the art is in the name rather than the piece named. Sometimes the artist doesn't have a story, and the onus gets placed on the viewer to make something out of nothing. It's better if the artist comes clean and just labels the work 'Inchoate number 28,' or something. Dorothea's art had real shining moments, an astonishing imagination, but in general the less shaped, the better it became. Or at least the more photogenic.



I haven't included her 'soft sculptures,' which in the early 21st century are just that bit too close to plushy tubes to inspire. She had talent with set dressing and illustration, but to be honest, she didn't captivate me. In the end, Schad's one picture mattered to me far more.
I see that Jonathan Jones is bad mouthing this years Summer Exhibition at the RAC, so I will probably go look-see in defiance of that homunculoid study in envy.